


Four Months After That

by circ_bamboo



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, PikeOne_Bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:48:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eve and Christopher, after four months of marriage. A short sequel-ish thingy to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/128505">Nine Years Later</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Months After That

**Author's Note:**

> For the "alternate universe -- freestyle" square on my [PikeOne bingo card](http://circ-bamboo.livejournal.com/18270.html). Also fulfills a square on [my schmoop_bingo card](http://circ-bamboo.livejournal.com/5046.html) that I've been neglecting a lot, but I won't say which one. Readers will easily guess. Emetophobes will not enjoy this story.

Lady Eve Pike, Baroness Prescott, nee Chapel, woke with the sun, as she did most mornings, and smiled, a slow flowering of satisfaction. On her left side was the warm, slumbering presence of her husband; surrounding her, the house and land they shared. Her sister Christine and two friends were visiting; the weather was still pleasantly autumnal, despite it being the beginning of November. In short, her life was everything she’d hoped when she accepted Christopher’s suit.

And then some.

Her midsection growled unbecomingly, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the wave of nausea that washed over her. Sliding carefully across the bed--she knew better than to awaken Christopher quickly; he tended to react poorly--she pressed a fist into her mouth as she sat up. It didn’t stave off the nausea, but it did keep her from retching until she’d padded across the floor, shrugged into her robe, grabbed the chamber pot, and slipped into the unused baroness’s chambers.

There, she was so occupied with purging her insides that she did not notice that she had company until a hand stroked across her forehead, pulling her hair back from her face. She spit, in a thoroughly-unladylike fashion, attempting to get the taste of bile out of her mouth, and swiped the back of her hand across her lips before looking up. “I did not mean to wake you,” she said.

“No matter,” Christopher said, pushing a stray lock of hair back from her face. “Are you finished?”

“No,” she said, sighing. “There will be a second wave in a few moments.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” he asked. He’d managed to don his dressing gown before following her, but she was still momentarily distracted by the triangle of his chest still visible between the edges of the richly-embroidered fabric.

“Call for water and perhaps toast?” Eve said.

Christopher nodded, and stood. A moment later, she hunched over the chamber pot again for round two of her battle with her stomach.

He held her hair again and stroked her back as she was wracked by spasms, and when she finished, he held out a handkerchief. She took it gratefully and wiped off her face. He then handed her a glass of water, which she used to rinse her mouth, and then swallowed a sip, gingerly. When it did not immediately cause her to gag, she sighed, and took another small sip.

“Is this the first time this has happened?” Christopher asked. He lowered himself to the floor next to her with a small wince, and pulled her into his arms.

“The fifth,” she admitted. “Every morning, for the past four days.” She leaned against his chest and closed her eyes.

“Why did you not wake me?” he asked, leaning his cheek against her hair.

“I did not--” Eve sighed again. “I would have had to wake you quickly,” she said, “and I did not wish to frighten you.”

She felt his chest rise and fall under her as he took a deep breath. “Fair enough,” he admitted, and she opened her eyes in surprise. She closed them again a moment later, though; it was better that she did not react to his admission.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asked, after a few moments of stroking her arm. His tone was gentle, and not deceptively so.

“That I have only a few moments to enjoy waking up with you every morning before I need to run?” she asked.

“Not that,” he said, and she looked up—yes, he was amused. He watched her face closely as he slid one hand from her arm down to her middle, resting warmly below her navel. “What such actions usually herald.”

She blinked, looked away. “I wanted to wait until I was certain.”

“Five days of morning sickness isn’t certainty?” He was plainly suppressing a smile, and his fingers gently caressed her abdomen through the thin satin of her robe. “We’ve been married for four months, give or take a few days, and you’ve only been indisposed once, early on. I’d say it’s fairly certain that you’re carrying our child.”

 _Our child._ This time she did not look away; she swallowed, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Yes. Christopher, I believe I’m carrying our child.”

He smiled, then, not the half-smile that was his reaction to most situations, nor the grin he used when amused, nor the indulgent smile he commonly used around Lady Christine and her friends. No, it was a wide, full, spontaneous expression, the likes of which she’d only seen a few times before, and never around anyone else. “I love you,” he said. “I want to shout from the mountaintops that I am the luckiest man alive.”

She loved the low, quiet intensity his voice got when he spoke of passion. “Luck had nothing to do with it,” she said, striving for an even tone. “We have been engaging in activities that commonly lead to children for somewhat over four months. We are both healthy and capable, and nature had her way.”

“Pragmatic as always,” he said, still smiling. “Nonetheless, I am lucky to have won you in the first place, regardless of the baby.” Touching his fingers to her chin, he turned her face to his and hesitated. “How are you feeling?”

“I am well,” she said. “After the—initial blast, let’s say—the nausea subsides rapidly and I usually return to bed.”

“Ah,” he said, and his eyes dropped to her lips.

“You may not wish to,” she warned him.

Christopher touched his lips to hers gently, chastely, and pulled away before handing her a small plate containing a couple slices of bread. She took it and ate; he pushed himself to his hands and knees and used the footboard of the bed to stand. She watched without judgment or pity, paying more attention to his calves than the wince she knew the movement had evinced. After he had gained his feet, he held out a hand.

Eve set her bread aside; she’d consumed enough of it to serve its purpose. She took his hand and used it for balance as she stood. Immediately he pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply, lips slanting against hers. His hands shaped her waist over the robe, long strokes from her hips out to her shoulder blades, even as he pulled her against him. “Come with me,” he said, and she nodded.

He led her back to the baron’s chambers— _their_ bedroom—and untied the sash at her waist. She let him divest her of her robe slowly, sensuously, with much more caressing than strictly necessary; in return, he let her strip off his dressing gown and thread her fingers through the hair on his chest. They curled together on the bed, her backside pressed against his front, his left hand back below her navel. “I love you,” he murmured in her ear. “You and our child.”

“And I love you,” she said, turning her head back. “Although I will love the child much more when it ceases causing me morning distress.”

Christopher laughed, a low rumble in her ear, and tightened his arms around her.


End file.
